


The Boy Who Yet Lived

by Dorotheian



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Harry Potter is no longer a Horcrux, Horcrux Hunting, Manipulative Albus Dumbledore, Mentor Severus Snape, Suicide Attempt, decent wizards don't jump to their deaths
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 17:15:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29953281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dorotheian/pseuds/Dorotheian
Summary: Dumbledore's explanation of the prophecy from the Department of Mysteries takes an unfortunate turn. In an effort to separate himself from the Horcrux inside of him and strike a blow against Voldemort's apparent immortality, Harry impulsively attempts to take his own life by jumping off a tower in the aftermath of Sirius's death.Consequently, Severus Snape is furious.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 28





	1. Prologue ~ the Horcrux and the Lost Prophecy

The silence and the stillness, broken only by the occasional grunt or snuffle of a sleeping portrait, was unbearable to him.

It was his fault that Sirius had died. All his fault.

There was a terrible hollow inside him he did not want to feel or examine, a dark hole where Sirius had been, where Sirius had vanished. He did not want to have to be alone with that great, silent space, he could not stand it —

Harry could not stand this, he could not stand being Harry anymore… He had never felt more trapped inside his own head and body, never wished so intensely that he could _escape_ to be somebody — anybody — else….

“Well, Harry,” said Dumbledore, “you will be pleased to hear that none of your fellow students are going to suffer lasting damage from the night’s events.”

Harry tried to say “Good,” but no sound came out. It seemed that Dumbledore was reminding him of the amount of damage he had caused by his actions tonight, and although Dumbledore was for once looking at him directly, his expression calm and not accusing, Harry could not bear to meet his eyes.

“I know how you are feeling, Harry,” said the Headmaster, very quietly.

“No, you don’t,” said Harry. White-hot anger leapt inside him. Dumbledore knew _nothing_ of his feelings.

“There is no shame in what you are feeling, Harry,” said Dumbledore’s voice. “On the contrary… the fact that you can feel pain like this is your greatest strength.”

The white-hot anger licked Harry’s insides, blazing with the desire to hurt Dumbledore for his calmness and his empty words.

“My greatest strength, is it?” said Harry, his voice shaking as he stared out the window, into the distance. “You haven’t a clue… You don’t know…” His hands shook.

“What don’t I know?” asked Dumbledore calmly.

Harry whipped around. “I don’t want to talk about how I feel, all right?”

Dumbledore leaned over his desk and stood. “Harry, suffering like this proves you are still a man! This pain is part of being human—"

“THEN — I — DON’T — WANT — TO — BE —HUMAN!” Harry roared, and he seized one of the delicate silver instruments from the spindle-legged table and flung it across the room. Several of the portraits yelled in anger and fright. “ _Really!_ ” said Armando Dippet.

“I DON’T CARE!” Harry yelled at them, snatching up the lunascope and throwing it into the fireplace. “I’VE HAD ENOUGH, I’VE SEEN ENOUGH, I WANT OUT, I WANT IT TO END, I DON’T CARE ANYMORE—”

“You do care,” said Dumbledore, smoothly seated again. He had not flinched or made a single move to stop Harry demolishing his office. His expression was calm, almost detached. “You care so much you feel as though you will bleed to death with the pain of it.”

“I—DON’T!” Harry screamed, so loudly that he felt his throat might tear, and for a second he wanted to rush at Dumbledore and break him too; shatter that calm old face, shake him, hurt him, make him feel some tiny part of the horror inside Harry.

“Oh yes, you do,” said Dumbledore, still more calmly. “You have now lost your mother, your father, and the closest thing to a parent you have ever known. Of course you care.”

“YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT I FEEL!” Harry roared. “YOU— STANDING THERE—YOU—”

But words were no longer enough, smashing things was no help. He wanted to run and keep running and never look back, he wanted to be somewhere he could not see the clear blue eyes staring at him, that hatefully calm old face. He turned on his heel and ran to the door, seized the doorknob again, and wrenched at it.

But the door would not open.

Harry turned back to Dumbledore.

“Let me out,” he said. He was shaking head to foot.

“No,” said Dumbledore simply.

For a few seconds they stared at each other.

“Let me out,” he said.

“No,” said Dumbledore repeated.

“If you don’t — if you keep me in here — if you don’t let me—”

“Not until I have had my say,” Dumbledore said sharply. Now standing, he towered. His cool blue gaze raked over Harry’s face.

“I DON’T CARE what you have to say!” Harry shrank back against the door. “I don’t’s want to hear _anything_ you have to say! _Let me out._ ”

“You will,” said Dumbledore sadly. “You are not nearly as angry with me as you ought to be. But if you are to attack me, Harry, as I know you are close to doing, I would like to have thoroughly earned it.”

“Wh—what are you talking—?” Harry’s back slid down the door, and he sat down with a thump.

“It is _my_ fault that Sirius died,” said Dumbledore clearly. “Or I should say almost entirely my fault. Sirius was a brave, clever, and energetic man, and such men are not usually content to sit at home in hiding while they believe others to be in danger. Nevertheless, you should never have believed for an instant that there was any necessity for you to go to the Department of Mysteries. If I had been open with you, Harry, you would have known a long time ago that Voldemort might try and lure you to the Department of Mysteries, and you would never have been tricked into going there tonight. Sirius would not have had to come after you.”

Harry shook his head, avoiding Dumbledore’s face. “No,” he mumbled.

“It begins with your scar. This ability of yours — to detect Voldemort’s presence, even when he is disguised, and to know what he is feeling when his emotions are roused — has become more and more pronounced since Voldemort returned to his own body and his full powers.”

Harry did not bother to nod. He knew all of this already.

“There is but one singular yet incontrovertible reason for this. You are a horcrux.”

Harry’s scar prickled. The hair stood up instinctively on the back of his neck. Hagrid had once beckoned him into a magical world more real and true, more delightful and yet more cruel than he could ever have dreamed of, with just those words: _You’re a wizard, Harry._ But this—whatever a horcrux was, it promised to be horrible.

Harry blinked and croaked, “I’m a— I’m a _what_ now?” His eyes grew hot with tears.

“A horcrux, Harry.”

Harry took another step back and shook his head more violently, breaking the eye contact. “No. No.”

“Simply put, Harry, a horcrux is what some would term a ‘soul jar.’ The night your parents died, Voldemort used their murders to place a piece of his soul in you, creating that scar of yours, and made you a part of him.” Dumbledore’s voice was somber, but on that last word, his voice darkened. “Because he was meddling with magics he did not understand, the backfire discorporated him, separating his shade from his body, but he still could not be fully killed.”

Somewhere, someone was screaming. Screaming softly into his right ear. His scar sears and burns. Now someone was laughing. Someone was laughing at… _him_.

Harry looked up and mentally _shoved_ that voice to the side. “He did… _What?_ ” Tears streamed down Harry’s face.

“It means this, Harry. Because he has placed his soul in you, for as long as you live, Voldemort _cannot die_.”

Harry’s eyes widened.

“I knew it could not be long before Voldemort attempted to force his way into your mind, to manipulate and misdirect your thoughts. I will confess that I was not eager to give him more incentive or reason to use you as a means to spy on me. When you began to dream of the prophecies within the Department of Mysteries… I knew, as you did not, that only the people to whom the prophecies refer can lift them from the shelves without suffering madness. Either Voldemort himself would have to enter the Ministry of Magic and risk revealing himself at last—or you would take it for him. And I feared the other uses he to which he would put you, the possibility that he might try and possess you. You will forgive me if the matter of the damage wreaked by another possessed by Tom Riddle through the Chamber of Secrets did not also occupy my thoughts. Tom was my student for seven years. It is not so far-fetched to think that he might know how to exploit another of this school’s secrets, which need not be so legendary. Even I do not claim to know them all.

“It became a matter of even greater urgency that you should master Occlumency. Harry, I believe I was right to think that Voldemort would have made use of you in such a way. Indeed, he hoped, when he possessed you briefly a short while ago, that I would sacrifice you in the hope of killing him.” Dumbledore sighed deeply. “Voldemort’s aim in possessing you, as he demonstrated tonight, would not have been my destruction. It would have been yours.”

Harry’s arms were rigid at his sides, his fingers stiff and painful when he clenched them into fists.

“I feared the temptation would prove too great. In an attempt to arm you against Voldemort’s assaults on your mind, I arranged Occlumency lessons with Severus Snape,” said Dumbledore matter-of-factly, taking out his wand as he did so. “This, too, was my mistake. I assumed you had sufficient reason to do so, yet you did not take them seriously. You did not trust Professor Snape, who likewise could not let go of his loathing towards your father, and therefore could not bring himself to discover and nurture the good in you. Yet had I had taught you myself, Voldemort might have opened your connection to himself fully, and your soul would have been lost in the struggle between us.”

That snake of hatred stirred in the pit of his stomach, rising whenever he looked Dumbledore in the eyes. _He’s right._ Harry felt nauseous. _I didn’t practice. I didn’t practice._ “But if I hadn’t— If only _you_ had taught me—” Harry tried to argue. His hands were shaking. Shaking uncontrollably. He had been trapped; he had not even known that he had been trapped...

“You have already experienced the worst that could possibly happen when Voldemort is fully present,” said Dumbledore, lifting an eyebrow. “Are you sure you would like to test his will to reach you within the walls of Hogwarts?”

Angry and shaking, Harry scrambled to his feet and spat, “Yes!”

Dumbledore stood and drew his wand, locking eyes with him. “Then prepare to defend yourself. _Legilimens!_ ”

White-hot pain, and then Dumbledore was inside his memories, streaming far too quickly to attempt to control or stymie their flow—

_Kreacher, mocking him from the fireplace_

_Fumbling with the teacup and stumbling over Mrs. Figg’s numerous and badly-tempered cats, surrounded by a strong stench of cabbage_

Thoughts careened and Harry struggled to direct them, focusing on the cat photographs, which morphed into pink kitten plates, mewling on the walls of—

_Crooning to Hedwig, pushing owl treats to her through the bars, she rattled the cage clinking chains against chains, and—_

_Filch, accompanied by Mrs. Norris_

Norbert, thought Harry, pushing the memory forward, but it was too late; the memories were too faint and they faded and failed.

_Filch raised his lantern to the wall, light flickering…._

I SOLEMNLY SWEAR I AM UP TO NO GOOD, Harry interrupted, sweating, superimposing them over the bloody letters, but the unquenchable stream continued, implacable and un-diverted.

_a headless, dripping rooster_

_Ginny—_

_“Let me rip you—_ _let me kill you—"_ _the basilisk, whispering—_ _a trail of spiders—_ _The Heir of Slytherin—Riddle—a ripped and shredded, ink-stained diary amid a pool of darkness—_

_a dim-lit Graveyard_

Harry gasped, clutching the fabric of his shirt and squeezing in a desperate attempt to distract himself through pain.

_Peter Pettigrew raised a silver knife, and slashed it down—_

_“No, not Harry, please not Harry—"_

_the jet of green light hit Cedric’s body, bright eyes widened in shock dimmed to empty dullness, and he fell slowly, oh so slowly_

_the Snake bit Arthur Weasley, and Harry woke with fresh terror and an unnatural, happy triumph…._

_Possessed by a horrible rib-rattling, ecstatic laughter…_

_then in the Headmaster’s office, a memory of looking, seeking Dumbledore’s eyes—they met—_

_YES!_ howled a voice, a familiar voice expressing a strange and horribly joyless euphoria, and darkness surged from Harry’s chest, through his mouth, through his eyes, and that horrible voice screamed in triumph. With no time for thought, Harry rushed forward, pushing out with his hands— Dumbledore whipped his wand into motion — Harry staggered as he hit the crackling edge of Dumbledore’s Shield Charm, and slipped, landing flat on his back with the breath knocked out of him.

Harry curled into a ball on the floor. Eye contact severed, the triumphant scream cut off abruptly. He heard the soft rasp of his lungs gasping for breath, one arm wrapped protectively around his chest, and the other cradling his head.

“You see, Voldemort is learning,” Dumbledore said, with a kind of grimness. “The Occlumency lessons seem not to have helped at all,” he continued dispassionately. “But no matter. Perhaps it was always too much to ask; whether Occlumency could successfully block your connection was never a complete certainty. Severus, unlike myself, believed the effort to be useless. Sit up, Harry.”

Harry pushed himself up with one arm, and sat numbly on splayed legs, feeling dazed. His head ached.

“I cared about you too much,” said Dumbledore simply. “I cared more for your happiness than your knowing the truth, more for your peace of mind than my plan, more for your life than the lives that might be lost if the plan failed. In other words, I acted exactly as Voldemort expects we fools who love to act. I defy anyone who has watched you as I have not to want to save you more pain than you already had suffered. What did I care if numbers of nameless and faceless people and creatures were slaughtered in the vague future, if in the here and now you were alive, and well, and happy? I never dreamed I would have such a person on my hands.” He sighed. “I was wrong.

“It is time that you knew the full and complete prophecy, the reason why Voldemort sought to kill you when you were a child. He knew a prophecy had been made though he did not know its full contents. He believed he was fulfilling the terms of the prophecy. The globe that was smashed when you attempted to steal it for Voldemort from the Department of Mysteries was a mere record, a copy, of this prophecy.”

Harry said nothing, but followed Dumbledore with his eyes. Dumbledore walked past Harry to the Pensieve, where he raised his wand to his temple and deposited silvery strands of thought from his wand to the basin. Dumbledore tapped the silvery substance, and a figure rose out of it.

When Sybill Trelawney spoke, it was not in her usual ethereal, mystical voice, but in the harsh, hoarse tones Harry had heard her use once before.

 _“THE ONE WITH THE POWER TO VANQUISH THE DARK LORD APPROACHES…. BORN TO THOSE WHO HAVE THRICE DEFIED HIM, BORN AS THE SEVENTH MONTH DIES… AND THE DARK LORD WILL MARK HIM AS HIS EQUAL, BUT HE WILL HAVE POWER THE DARK LORD KNOWS NOT… AND EITHER MUST DIE AT THE HAND OF THE OTHER FOR NEITHER CAN LIVE WHILE THE OTHER SURVIVES…. THE ONE WITH THE POWER TO VANQUISH THE DARK LORD WILL BE BORN AS THE SEVENTH MONTH DIES…_ ”

Harry’s head was spinning. He did not know if he understood what it all meant or not. He didn't really care. “It means—me?”

“Yes,” said Dumbledore after a moment. Thoughtfully, he folded his hands together. “The one spoken of in this prophecy was born at the end of July sixteen years ago, to parents who had already defied Voldemort three times. This is the weapon he has been seeking so assiduously since his return: the knowledge of how to destroy you.”

Harry did not understand. He did not understand anything of his life anymore. “All this… all of this… if I had never been born,” Harry said dully. His dad. His mum. His parents. Peter, Sirius. Cedric. His heart ached. _Sirius._

Hermione, prone on the floor. Ron, giggling insensibly through pain. Ginny, curled up against the wall. Neville, his nose broken and oozing. He had nearly led them to slaughter. None of it would have happened if not for him.

Sod the prophecies. All of them.

Dumbledore rose. “As of now, my priority is to keep you alive. Your mother’s sacrifice—it invoked ancient magic that protects you of the kind he continues to despise and underestimate. There is no spell, no charm, no defense that is anything like that magic that lives on from her sacrifice in your blood. You have only to return to her sister, her only remaining relative, once a year, to renew her protection. You will be safe from Voldemort.”

“She doesn’t love me.” Harry hugged his knees. “My aunt doesn’t give a damn.”

“Her blood is your refuge,” Dumbledore repeated, looking at him sternly over the top of his half-moon glasses. “As long as you call her house home.”

“Never mind,” Harry muttered to himself. Numb, Harry arose and walked to the window, and looked out at the empty, misty school grounds. _I never asked to live. I never asked to be safe._

“Neither can live while the other survives,” Harry repeated, suddenly. “She— that woman said.”

“Professor Trelawney. Yes,” said Dumbledore.

Harry squared his shoulders and turned on his heel to face him, his gaze glued to the ground. “Then I’m done.”

Dumbledore frowned. “What do you mean?”

 _If this is what would result… he should have killed me in that graveyard. It would be better for everyone if I was gone. At least everyone would have a fighting chance._ Harry wiped his tears roughly on his sleeve. “I’ve heard it all now. Let me out. I’m done.”

“Harry, we are not done talking yet—”

Harry gathered his strength to bellow. “LET ME OUT!” A powerful wave of despair and wandless magic erupted from his body, wrenching savagely at the door handle. Harry took that magic and pulled, pushed and pulled, yanked and pummeled, shrank and expanded, warping the wood and the metal and the glass. With strain and stress, the door exploded into shards and splinters as the handle spun free. “ _You can’t stop me._ ” The metal clattered to the ground.

“Harry—”

Harry ran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the purpose of presenting a seamless divergence from canon, I have quoted extensively from the "Lost Prophecy" chapter of OoTP. The following chapters will not contain quotations.


	2. The Boy Who Died

The explosion of wood chunks and groaning metal missed Severus Snape’s elbow by mere inches, filling the night with splinters, shards, and dust. A lean figure, a slight shadow in the dusky twilight, darted down the passageway.

“STOP RIGHT THERE, POTTER!” Coughing, Severus yanked his wand from its sleeve and surged from the wall where he had been awaiting consultation with the Headmaster.

Emerging from the open doorway behind Severus, Dumbledore reached across to stay Severus’s wand hand, a breathtakingly condescending gesture that would have carried grave insult if Dumbledore was not so blithely confident of Severus’ trust. With a bit of a growl, Severus resisted.

“Let him go, Severus. He's just lost Sirius; he’s got to grieve,” Dumbledore said, with a quelling tone.

"Are you mad?" Severus sent Dumbledore a savage, scathing glance. “After what you just told him?” Severus shook him off. “Get out of my way.” He saw no trace of the boy; Potter appeared to be gone. Severus swore. “He must have summoned the Cloak!”

“Severus, we must let nature take its course—”

“In that state, _Albus_?” Severus rounded on him, turning the Headmaster’s name into a sneer. “You told him he was a horcrux! A tool of the Dark Lord! Do you actually believe he is your wizarding savior after all? Do you want the poor fool to _die_?” By the gods, that conversation could not have gone worse if Dumbledore had _tried_.

Ripping himself from Dumbledore’s grasp, Severus hurled himself after Potter.

A blood debt. A _blood_ debt. If he does not act fast, Potter’s child or not, there may be no debt to repay at all. Nothing left of Lily on the blessed Earth. For all that the Headmaster claims he cares for the child’s happiness, Severus just wants Potter to _survive_.

Potter. Potter. Where could Potter have gone? Potter was Muggleborn. Potter liked heights. Heart in his throat, Severus took the stone steps two at a time, and heard light footsteps upon the castle stones as he burst from the tower and onto the smooth stones of the wall. He pointed his wand: “ _Homenum revelio!_ ”

A ripple in the air. Severus stayed where he was and lowered his wand so as not to present an active threat, but only just. “Potter.”

Potter tore the hood from his head, revealing a face tracked with wood, dust, and tears. “Leave me alone.” He stepped onto the parapet, glancing uneasily at the ground.

Severus said, “I will not.”

“You’re his spy.” Angry indifference on his face, at this moment, Potter cared not whose, Dumbledore's or Voldemort's.

“I am.” Severus paused. “I failed to apprehend your misadventure. I underestimated you, and you are not— you are not the only foolish student who has made mistakes or endangered others.” Severus tightened his grip on his wand. It did not make good form for casting, but his emotions were too strong to suppress. He forced himself to loosen his grip and breathe raggedly through his nose. “Surely you don’t intend…” A dull horror, divorced from contempt, occurred to him with a shiver.

Potter glanced down at the ground, judging the height of the tower.

Severus forced himself to breathe. Focus. Narrowing his eyes, he pictured the distance between himself and Potter, and how long it would take to cross that distance. Which spell: _levicorpus?_ Perhaps, but easily anticipated, and it had to be correctly timed. Featherweight charm? His aim would have to be true. Cushioning charm was similar, but it would take too long: he must have time to spot the ground first. Tethering charm? No, aim in the wrong spot and that could break his neck. Summoning charm? It could fail. Sticky shoes? He could still lose his balance, and slip and fall…

Severus spoke again, aware of his fingers fluttering as he regripped his wand. “To escape in death…is a senseless waste. _I will not have it._ ”

Potter shrugs. “They would be better off without me.” Potter edges away from Severus and laughs bitterly. “Safer, too.”

“ _Potter_. No one knows that for a fact.” Severus inhaled, nostrils flaring, and spoke with his usual venom and contempt. “You have no _idea_ of your worth.”

Potter scowled. “You mean my worth to Voldemort? My worth to Dumbledore? You hated my dad. You hated Sirius. You’ve hated me all your life. Over and over, you told me that I was nothing more than a famous attention-seeking _freak_!” Skittish, Potter hopped from one parapet to the next, backing away from Severus. “Why would you care? You’ve paid your life debt.” The wind kicked up the hem of his robes, briefly revealed by the edges of his Cloak.

Severus forced himself to relax, remaining at a cautious distance as he continued to follow Potter’s footsteps. “Such debts do not end simply because we wish them to, Potter.” Potter ran out of wall and wobbled on the edge. “As the Dark Lord’s spy, I inflicted great harm, and incurred many other debts I cannot repay. Yet I did not break. Surely you are _stronger_ than this! You heard the prophecy _—_ it is _your_ hand that will vanquish the Dark Lord!”

“Strong?” Potter shook his head. “No. I begged for death today when Voldemort took control. I was his… puppet. He would use me to kill everyone in this school if he could! Ginny nearly did when Tom possessed her. And my one hope is to master Occlumency? Ha! You don’t believe it would help, and never did, and you were my teacher!” Hot, angry tears spilled over Potter’s cheeks. “But in the end, it doesn’t matter, because I trusted _him_! I trusted the dreams, I TRUSTED _KREACHER_! And after all this… to go back to summer at the Dursleys? They’ll _kill_ me if I don’t go utterly mad first. Or Uncle Vernon might lock me in Dudley’s second bedroom again, if he realizes Sirius is dead, and he can’t control me with threats or push me around anymore. You don’t know what it’s _like,_ to face them, let alone after what Cedric— I’ll fight them all. No. I will _never_ go back. Dumbledore can’t make me. He can’t _MAKE ME strong enough_! He can’t!” Harry danced back, perilously close to the edge.

Severus whispered hoarsely, “Surely Dumbledore—”

“He won’t listen.” Potter laughed. “No. It doesn’t matter. People are dead because of me. Don’t you get it? _Sirius_ is dead. Cedric is dead. My friends— almost died. Voldemort tricked me, but _I_ led them to the Department of Mysteries. It’s my fault. I just want them to have a fighting chance. I want it to end. I just want it all to end.” Potter spread his arms.

Severus roared and rushed forward. “POTTER! NO!” Spells poured through his mind, murmured senselessly by numb lips, wand whipping into motion—

Potter gave him one last, measured look, and then he dropped from the tower, wrapped in the invisibility cloak.

Severus fell against the parapet, grasping uselessly at thin air. Below, there was a sharp CRACK. For a time, the air pulsed, wracked with silent sobs, overwhelmed by a memory of another death from sixteen years ago, before finally Severus wrenched his hands from the stonework. He forced himself to descend the tower stairs, groping the walls with his left hand. Time itself seemed to seize, and it stayed far, far away.

* * *

“Harry! Harry!”

The voice sounds like it’s far away, and he hears the delighted barking of a sturdy black dog, and then a warm body slams into Harry’s. Sirius wraps his arms around Harry and buries his face in his neck. “My boy. Oh, my boy. I thought I lost you!”

“Sirius? I thought you were dead…!” Harry shouts joyfully.

“Harry?” Sirius hugs harder. “Harry, I _am_ dead. But…” He bites his lip.

“Where am I?” Harry asks, looking around.

“King’s Cross Station. Or something like?” Sirius takes a look around. “Assuming I am seeing what you are seeing, that is.”

Harry stares at him. Sirius looks young again. The age, the sorrow and the dull anger that haunted him before have been wiped away, utterly gone. He looks… he looks at peace.

“Sirius, what about mum and dad?”

“Not here. They sent me to…speak to you.” Sirius bites his lip. “Lily and James send you their love. Cedric, too,” he adds after a moment, raising his head to meet Harry’s eyes. “Harry, you’ve got to go back.”

“What? No, I don’t! I want to be with you!”

“No, Harry.” Sirius shakes his head. “I never wanted to be an excuse for you to take your life. Your mother, your father and I… we will be well, waiting for you. But your time is not now. You have a second chance.” Sirius grips his shoulders. “Harry, I’m pleading with you because you _must_ , and time is of the essence. Look behind you.”

Trembling, Harry does so.

It’s…. a child. An ugly, distorted child. Now Harry is aware of its grunting, jerking, moaning, whispering, and crying. Moist and clammy, it looks as if it is being tortured. His skin crawls at the thought of touching it. Its slit eyes are sullen, sunken, and spiked with raw hatred and resentment when it catches Harry’s gaze. Harry jerks his gaze away, quickly, feeling vaguely nauseous. _So that’s why Snape tried to teach me Occlumency_. It had not been real to him before. Guilt settles in the pit of his stomach, bitter and cold.

“I thought this would be easier,” says Harry, swallowing. “Is that how Voldemort was trying to gain control of me?”

Sirius looks at the child and nods. “Harry. Harry, listen. That fragment of soul is Voldemort’s, and it has no morals, no heart, no spirit, no conscience, _nothing_. It is bound to foul magic, and it has never grown and will never grow and change as a person does. It is not even a properly formed or self-contained Horcrux, but poison and calamity. If you cross the boundary to death, that thing will try to survive you. If it takes over your body, I shudder to think what would happen. But your body died, so you don’t have to leave again with that…thing. It’s no natural part of you. You can leave it behind. If you choose life, you have the stronger will, and it must accept your choice. But you _must_ go back while you still can.”

“So _‘neither can live while the other survives,’_ ” Harry says numbly.

“Just so. You forgot, ‘ _either must die at the hands of the other._ ’ I’m so sorry, Harry. There’s more than one way to skin a prophecy… but it all comes true in the end.”

“Sirus.” Harry’s eyes fill with tears. “I just missed you so much. I didn’t get to say goodbye. I still—I guess I still don’t understand what happened at the Ministry….”

“I fell through one of the Doors to Death.” Sirius' steady gaze is so gentle and so compassionate, it hurts.

Unable to look at him, Harry looks at the mismatched child of writhing limbs, which is spitting and mewling and whimpering. “Do I just…leave it here?” As disgusted as he is, pity moves him to _feel_ this as a kind of abandonment.

“Let the dead take care of the dead, Harry.”

"Okay. Okay, Sirius." Harry wipes his eyes. “I never asked to live like this. I can’t go on. Not without you. And I— I love Hogwarts, but it’s not enough…”

Sirius presses a kiss to his forehead, then both his cheeks, and braces Harry by the shoulders. “Yes, you can. And yes, there is hope; you just don’t know it yet. Trust me—things can change now you’ve bloody well caught the school’s attention. Now, can you cast a Patronus?”

Harry shakes his head.

“Then do it for me, Harry. Can you do that? Will you let me see your beautiful silver Prongs again? You saved my life once, you know. You were so _kind_ , and so desperate not to let me lose it again. You didn’t fail me, Harry. I failed you, but you never failed me.”

Tearing himself away is agony. Reluctantly, Harry takes a step back and raises his wand. “Yes.”

“All right. You know I am so proud of you, Harry. So proud.” Sirius scrubs at his eyes. “James is right proud, too, even if he’s too miffed to speak just now.” He laughs a little. “He’s giving me such a dirty look, you know. And Lily sends her love.”

“I know,” says Harry softly, knowing this is a dirty, rotten trick, and he is letting Sirius get away with it, but his voice cracks when he says, “You’re the only dad I ever knew.”

“There’s always new family to be found.” Sirius looks at him fondly. “I didn’t find it in my own family. But I found it in Remus and James. Even Lily, one day. You will, too.”

Harry nods, breathing unevenly as he clutches his wand.

“Do it, Harry!”

Harry opens his mouth, opens his mind, and gulps for breath, reaching instinctively for his happiest memories with Sirius, weaving experiences he remembers with those he does not, even as tears pour from his face, and he shouts: “EXPECTO… PATRONUM!!!”

It is hearing Sirius offer his guardianship and his home to him. The hope and joy of handling one of Sirius' letters, tracing over the curves of his handwriting, and signing his name to his reply before rousing a sleepy Hedwig to take it. The warmth in his fingers upon meeting his holly-and-phoenix-feather wand. Racing Malfoy neck-and-neck on a broomstick. Biting into his first chocolate frog. Ron pumping his fists after a close game of wizard chess. Huddling with Hermione, crouched over a murky potion brewing at the back of a very wet girls’ bathroom. Snow pelting Malfoy’s face. A roomful of students waking to breathe and move again after several months of petrification, and the quiet sigh that fell over the hospital wing thereafter. Comfort food in the Great Hall under floating candles and grey-cloud skies. Helping Sirius escape on Buckbeak’s back. It’s tea with Hagrid and his infamous rock cakes. It’s the freedom and relief of handing a thousand galleons to a pair of flabbergasted red-headed twins who know exactly what to do with it once they get over their shock. The thrill of opening the Marauder’s Map and whispering, _I solemnly swear I am up to no good,_ and the names of _Misters Moony, Prongs,_ and _Padfoot_ appearing on its pages. Radishes swing from Luna’s ears and Harry offers to find her lost shoes. Baffled and wet, he is hugged fiercely by Fleur and Gabrielle. He is arguing with Arthur Weasley about rubber ducks and the function of toilets and Muggle technology. Ginny fires off spell after spell with grim determination and perfect deadly form. Neville shouts for all his worth: _Riddikulus!_ Tears tremble on Cho’s eyelashes as she releases tears he cannot shed for Cedric’s death. A hand shoved under Umbridge’s nose, ridged with the scars of the words and declaring with fierce and vicious vindication, _I must not tell lies._ It is resting under a grove of geraniums in the back of Privet Drive, cool and hidden from the summer sun. It is a sackful of galleons and a modest list of names under the heading " _Dumbledore’s Army_." It is a glimmering roomful of glowing patroni and delighted, unforced smiles. It is Lucius handing Dobby the house elf the _forbidden sock_.

The horns of Prongs the stag floods the station with light, filling King’s Cross with overlapping wreaths of hope, love, and joy. It is stronger here on the edge of the afterlife than it is in the corporeal world, and it fills Harry with its strength.

“That’s my boy!” Sirius crows with gleeful pride above the buzz and the gleam of a thousand kilowatts of bright, blindingly pure white light. “ _That’s_ _the_ _power_ _the Dark Lord knows not!_ ”

Somewhere, a haunted man tips his face into that light, breathless with laughter, becoming young again. Somewhere, a black dog barks farewell.

_Goodbye, my godson._

* * *

With a soft gasp, Harry shuddered and opened his eyes. Snape loomed above him.

The Headmaster approached, striding swiftly from the tower.

Snape inserted himself between the two of them and shielded Harry Potter with his body. “Do. Not. Touch. Him,” Snape snarled.

“Severus—”

“DO _NOT_ SPEAK TO ME!” Snape shrieked, shaking with the effort. “Nor to _HIM_! HOW DARE YOU! YOU SAID HE WOULD BE _SAFE_! _I TRUSTED YOU!”_

Snape had gone quite mad. Harry’s eyes fluttered and shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always been a bit peeved that the first time I read OoTP and read that Sirius fell through the veil, I was confused that did not figure out what had happened immediately. It was only when I read fan reactions that I realized... So this chapter provides closure for both Harry and I. XP


	3. Hospital Wing

Severus sent off a Patronus. Madam Pomfrey swiftly assessed the situation, took his pulse, and declared him alive. Potter was transferred to a stretcher, and floated up to the castle. Since it was clear that Severus would not allow him to approach, Dumbledore remained where he was until Potter was well on his way, and then he turned around and returned to his office. There, Potter was given Dreamless Sleep while Madam Pomfrey performed diagnostic spells to determine the full extent of his injuries. Severus took a chair and waited. Apparently having decided that Harry was stable enough and Severus looked like death warmed over, Madam Pomfrey summoned a blanket for him and added some warming charms and handed him chocolate and a butterbeer for good measure. Severus refused. Madam Pomfrey threatened to spell him with cheering charms if he didn't partake in front of her. Irritated, Severus obeyed.

“Well,” said Madam Pomfrey, at last, “Thanks to your quick thinking and some… _accidental..._ magic… I think he will recover.” She was clearly puzzled.

“What have you discovered?” Severus said, lowering the butterbeer; he had always found it overly sweet to the taste.

Madam Pomfrey frowned. “Well, goodness knows, the diagnostics seemed to indicate that there are signs that he _had_ a fatal injury not too long ago, but his essential organs appear to be perfectly intact without even so much as internal bruising, so that can't be right. His vitals are perfectly fine. He cracked his skull, so his brain at least _ought_ to be rattled. I will be casting more complete diagnostics when he wakes later, but for now I think he needs healing sleep. Broken bones—ah, two breaks in his left arm and his left leg and heel, plus he crushed or scraped up his entire left side. If the spinal cord had broken, I shouldn't like to think. Although I’ve seen Quidditch players do worse falling from a bloody broomstick, and that was _after_ they had the sense to use cushioning charms on the sod of thepitch. We’ll patch him right up.” She grimaced with distaste and sniffed. "He _did_ fall, didn't he?"

Severus nodded, taking another sip.

“There’s one other thing,” Madam Pomfrey said, hesitating.

“What is it?” Severus came to attention immediately.

“Potter’s scar,” she said. “Was leaking—seeping something. I didn't like the look of it, so I did my best to draw it out with my wand. Not a natural bodily substance—that’s all I can tell you. I’ve captured it in a bottle in case you wish to attempt a positive identification.” She produced a crystal bottle, filled with something like black ink, and wiggled it.

Severus frowned. “Thank you, Poppy. I certainly will.” He took the bottle and pocketed it.

Madam Pomfrey took a deep breath. “What was the child _doing_ , Severus?”

“Potter ran from the Headmaster’s office and jumped from the nearest bloody tower.” Severus swallowed. “I think I saw him… die.”

Madam Pomfrey paled.

“I am very serious. I ask that you keep it to yourself for now. Aside from yourself, myself, and Minerva, I am not sure who else needs to know. And I must urge you in the strongest possible terms _not_ to let Headmaster Dumbledore anywhere near him.” Severus’s lip curled. “If he comes while I am guarding the boy, I will hex him first.”

“You wish to keep out the _Headmaster_?” It was a sign of her deep distress that Madam Pomfrey nearly laid a hand on his sleeve, her eyes wide. “A _Muggle_ _suicide_ , Severus? But that never works!”

Severus winced. That old wives' tale never seemed to die, but if it served to protect Potter from the media and Ministry interference... “Keep your _voice_ _down_ , Poppy!” Severus scowled and, seeing no way out of it, opted for the simplest set of truth and lies. “We do not know what was discussed in the Headmaster’s office. Potter’s godfather died tonight during a Death Eater raid on the Ministry of Magic. The boy was distraught. Nevertheless…”

"Sirius... Black?" Madam Pomfrey gasped. “The poor dear! What on Earth could Albus have said to Harry?”

 _What indeed_. Mindful of her gaze, Severus took another bite of chocolate. “Whatever it was, it was not taken well. We need to speak to him before we let the Headmaster back into his sight, and ascertain what happened,” Severus replied, and Madam Pomfrey nodded. She still thought Potter survived the fall. Severus was almost certain that he didn’t, but he decided not to press the point. “He lived,” Severus murmured instead.

She chuckled. “ ‘The Boy Who Lives.’ Thank heavens he did. Most wizards _do_ survive reckless falls, bless them…” Longbottom, for one, no thanks to his overbearing, _senseless_ family. “I’ll do as you say. It will be hard to dissuade the Headmaster if he comes by. Perhaps we should request a transfer to St. Mungo’s? The school is closing, after all, and that is where Minerva is currently. You’ll have an excuse to guard them both. The boy’s things can be retrieved later at your leisure. And... sorry to bother you with more paperwork at this time, but... it is standard procedure at this time of year,” Madam Pomfrey said apologetically. She rummaged in some drawers and brought Severus a list of potions for him to restock over the summer.

“A perfect excuse.” Severus smiled thinly, and finished off the butterbeer.

Madam Pomfrey flashed a prim, satisfied smile. “I thought so.” She picked up a quill and dashed off a letter to St. Mungo’s, requesting assistance and an emergency safety-portkey. Severus swiftly wrote a letter to McGonagall, informing her of the critical developments in the life of her most exasperating student and of his plans, and prepared to escort Potter to the magical hospital. The transfer occurred smoothly. Madam Pomfrey helped Severus sign preliminary paperwork designating himself as Potter's temporary guardian as a representative of Hogwarts. The transfer by safety-portkey was longer, and colder, but less jarring than by standard portkey. Potter was rushed off on a stretcher by a team of two young healers; Severus trailed after them. They were led into a room; Severus took a seat. It was well after midnight before he slept, albeit fitfully. His dreams were filled with the ghostly spectres of Death Eaters moving in schools, faces he knew were alive and those he had known who had died, a long fingered column of masked acolytes infiltrating the Ministry...

* * *

“Where are we?”

“This is St. Mungo’s.” It must have been early morning. Severus Snape snapped paper sheets flat and refolded his copy of the _Daily Prophet_ and stared at him quellingly. “Where you will no doubt remain _for some time_ ,” he said, lifting an eyebrow to sneer.

“I feel fine,” Potter lied, staring at the ceiling. He was painfully stiff, but nothing actively hurt so far. His cheek felt sticky. He must have scraped it in the fall.

“You are probably high on pain salve.” Severus frowned. “Try that again.”

“But I feel—”

“What is the last thing that you remember?”

Potter stayed silent.

A rhetorical question, apparently, because Severus went on impatiently, “You walked off a ledge and fell from a bloody tower. _Try again_.”

“I _feel_ like I’ve been stamped on by a hippogriff. _Sir._ ”

“Better, but not honest enough to explain your reckless regard for your own life.”

Potter rolled his eyes. “Why are _you_ here, anyway?”

“To keep my eye on your insufferable person, Potter.” Severus took a flask of something out of the bedside drawer. “The mediwizards will want you to drink this soon. It’s a mild restorative.”

“Oh. Fine.” Potter wriggled his toes under the sheets and pushed himself to a sitting position. His left side erupted into hot, angry fire and swollen, distended joints, and he winced. Severus handed him the potion. Harry nearly dropped it in the transfer, and had to hold it in both hands to sip. It was a funny mixture of mint, moly, dittany, and sour bread that left his teeth feeling scrubbed, but it was not unpleasant, albeit strong to the taste. More interesting than shots of Uncle Vernon’s mouthwash, anyway, which he never used. “But why? I’m not going anywhere.” He carefully handed back the vial to Snape, who took it.

“I would not like a repeat of last night,” Severus said grimly.

Potter stared at the ceiling. “It won’t happen again.”

“Oh?”

“I got rid of it. The soul shard or whatever.” Potter picked at a bit of threading in the hospital blanket. “So I guess I lost my second free shot at death at the hands of Voldemort that _I didn’t know I had._ ” He snickered suddenly. “Same difference!”

 _You’re much too calm, Potter_. For a response, Severus settled for a dignified, “Indeed. We shall ascertain the truth of that statement at length later.” When that doesn’t feel sufficient, he added, with a curl of his lip, “You seem in good spirits.”

“I do, don’t I?” Potter said dreamily to the ceiling. “You could say anything to me, and I don’t think I’d care.”

Snape settled back in his chair, his dour expression fixed as a carved mask.

* * *

 _“Harry.” Hermione is crying. A vivid X is drawn in macabre purple across her chest, ragged and ravaged. It hurts to look at. She lies prone on the ground, frozen in the position in which she was once petrified by the basilisk, lips slightly parted_ _._ _A target._

 _Ron wades over from the sinks. He hisses something in Parseltongue, and Harry knows what he said and yet cannot understand him at the same time._ _Ron points to his forehead. Points to Harry’s._

_When Harry does not react, Ron frowns, draws his wand, and intones, “Wingardium Leviosa!”_

_Harry stiffens in panic, but there is no troll’s club. Confused, Harry watches as Hermione rises gently into the air and melts into Ron’s embrace, arms flung around his neck. Ron spins her in a graceful pirouette, sending Hermione’s hair flying and scattering crystal beads of water everywhere._

_Ron says, “Look, Hermione! His scar!” He looks at her and points to Harry, laughing._

_Hermione releases Ron with a gasp, lands in the water, and fumbles towards Harry. “White as a pearl! It’s healing! Have you ever seen it like this before, Ron?”_

_“I can’t touch it,” says Harry. He’s trying to reach it under his hair, but his fingers won’t reach. They shy away as if his scar is surrounded by an invisible forcefield._

_“Like a bleeding rack of lamb, it was,” says Ron, nodding. “Wouldn’t ever fully heal. Do you reckon Voldemort thought he was a sacrifice? You’re lightning rod for trouble, mate.”_

_“Shall I touch it for you, then?” Hermione asks nervously. At Harry’s nod, she lightly fingers the scar._ _The sensation of her touch fades into something like pure bliss._

_“Didn’t know curse scars could heal like that,” Ron says, subdued. “Not unless the curse was dealt with, at least.” He stares at Harry. “Did something happen to you, Harry?”_

_Harry opens his mouth to reply—_

**_“Legilimens!”_ **

* * *

Harry groped for his wand, but found nothing in the bedsheets. Panicking and unable to raise his head without pain, he twisted and turned, making sweat break out on his forehead, until someone reached across him to firmly clasp the blanket and shove him back down. “ _Be still_ , Potter.” Harry gasped for breath, heart racing.

Someone was leaning over him, and it wasn’t Ron or Hermione lifting a finger to his forehead to check his temperature.

“Where’s my wand?” Harry said thickly. His mouth tasted awful. “Glasses?”

“Potter.” Snape cleared his throat. “I have the frames, if you still wish to use them, but the lenses were shattered and broken and I was unable to fully repair them. You may want to consider replacements. Your personal effects—your wand and your Cloak—are safely locked in a drawer until you recover.”

“Snape?” Harry croaked, blinking at the grey-black shape above him.

“ _Professor_ Snape,” the dark shape corrected him crisply.

Harry made a face.

“I see your impudence has not left you.”

“I thought I saw—” Harry fell silent. “Did—did you try to spell me just now? To get into my mind?”

“Of course not. I thought we had established that teaching you Occlumency was a fool’s errand. Little good it would do me to illegally harass a suicidal underage wizard outside the demands of class,” Snape said irritably. “Did you learn nothing of the subject at all? You cannot cast a fact-finding _legilimens_ effectively on a sleeper, much less on a dreamer. There is nothing I could glean from your mind that I could not procure by legitimate means. I certainly don’t _enjoy_ digging in your miserable head.”

“You— what?”

“Fools like you and your father wear your heart bared upon your sleeves. If you could hide your emotions from your face or gesture, let alone your mind, half the battle could be won,” Snape sneered.

Harry’s jaw dropped. “You never told me facial expressions would matter in Occlumency!”

“A boy like you is expected to think for himself, without an adult at his side _to tell him what to do in every circumstance!_ ” Snape hissed. “Surely you’ve _thought_ about the rigor it would take to resist the Dark Lord! That it was time to make _every effort_ to re-enact it!”

“So— so— you were staging an entire—I don’t know, what, a _simulation_ _spy game?_ —when I hadn’t yet mastered the basics? Expecting me to shrug off every insult you lobbed at me? For someone who complains that I am _so_ easy to read, you sure did such a job at giving some positive motivation or making your precious _expectations_ clear! Every success I ever had under your tutelage was an accident. And that’s when defending myself is the only thing I’m ever any _good_ at!” Harry threw himself back into the pillows, shivering. Slivers and needles of pain exploded over his back and neck so he could not speak. He glared as balefully as he could at Snape.

Snape did not respond at first. He rolled his wand between his fingers thoughtfully. “What brought this line of questioning on? A nightmare? Or a dream?”

“I thought I heard you say the spell as I was waking up. I never asked for your help,” Harry mumbled. “Every lesson made me feel weaker. Worse. The dreams came _more_ frequently after lessons, and you just scoffed at me. But if I couldn’t resist them, I could still _help_. You _wanted_ me to fail.” Snape surely hated him too much to listen. Furious and angry, Harry shut his eyes to signal that the conversation was at an end. Blocking everything out, he plunged back into sleep.

* * *

There was a fuzzy green figure by his bed this time. Harry squinted into it.

As soon as she spoke, Harry recognized her voice. “Severus is having his evening meal, and I am feeling well enough to sit, so I thought I would sit with you. Before that, he was negotiating with St. Mungo's for a private room so we could protect you from prying eyes together.” McGonagall said, prim as ever. She was was sitting on some kind of wizarding version of a walker. Harry's impression—not helped by the lack of glasses—was that it had too many legs. “The Ministry shouldn't know you are here, yet. How are you feeling, Potter?”

“Awful,” Harry replied. The pain was more general than sharp now, and he was able to move.

“I see.”

There was a thought occurring. Harry struggled to remember, pulling it from his mind as if it had occurred many weeks ago. "We were having our Astronomy OWLs on the rooftop. You were Stunned.”

“I was. I am still moving quite gingerly,” McGonagall said simply. “They had to restart my heart, which was a nasty shock, I can assure you, and then Severus’s news came. McGonagalls do not break down so easily, however. I assure you that I can defend you as well seated as standing.”

“Thanks... Professor. I think. Are you… are you two guarding me from Dumbledore or something?”

McGonagall inhaled sharply. “I cannot speak for Severus.”

“Oh.”

“I want to see you healed, and healed well, Harry. You frightened us.”

“Sirius died,” Harry whispered.

“Yes. But we both know that is not the whole story.” McGonagall hesitated. “I believe you had reason for your actions that night. Perhaps you could help me put together the pieces of what happened in my absence. Or any other factors in your decision that you wish to share.”

Harry shook his head. There are too many secrets to keep safe, even from those he usually trusts.

“I was not thinking of today,” McGonagall said, sighing. “I know it will be hard for you. But when you’ve had some time to think about it…”

 _Help them put together the pieces_ , she said. Harry turned the thought over in his mind. If he has time to think about it, what to say and what not to say, maybe he could tell her a little more. “I’ll try.”

“There is nothing more I could ask of you, Harry.” McGonagall clasped Harry’s hand firmly.

Harry said vaguely, “I don’t… I don’t think of myself as all that unhappy, you know.”

McGonagall sighed. “I know, Harry. Some dragons lie deep… far beneath mere happiness or unhappiness. Sometimes life tickles them for us. Even if we weren't looking for trouble.”

Harry didn't know what to say to that.

* * *

McGonagall woke early in the morning, so she stayed alert while Harry ate breakfast until Snape came back around noon when Harry took lunch and McGonagall fell asleep. Harry had developed a slight intolerance to Skele-gro, so healing went more slowly than the Healers liked. They were brisk but cheerful. By the second day Harry stopped sleeping quite so much, but by the end of three days Harry's body had improved enough that he was able to use crutches with splints, and the Healers outfitted him with new glasses. They were rimmed in a thin, fragile-looking gold. He thought they looked a little flimsy, but they were his first glasses that had not been paid for by the Dursleys. Harry was mostly bored stiff. St. Mungo's was generally fairly quiet, but whenever a new patient was admitted, Harry tensed.

McGonagall, who was keeping a pulse on the activities of the Order, quietly intercepted a visit by Neville, Luna, and Ginny while they were checking on Ron and Hermione and invited them to see Harry, provided that they were “quiet” and “behaved.” They brought the news that Hermione was hit by a nasty Dark curse the Healers had not heard the use of since the last wizarding war. Ron was injured badly by the attack of the brains, which disturbed Harry, but his friends accepted the news with matter-of-factness and a distinct lack of surprise.

“The mind and the thoughts within it are very powerful, Harry,” Ginny explained when she saw his confusion. “Witches and wizards get overconfident because they think magic can heal so much of the body, but it’s all but powerless to heal a frightened and unwilling mind. What Ron experienced was a mental attack embodied, and that’s not something people are equipped to experience, because it can only occur because of powerfully unnatural magic. Luna says the Quibbler has been writing conspiracy theories about the Ministry’s experiments with thought magic since forever, but she never expected to see it confirmed because the research is so controversial. If she decided to talk, her dad just might blow a gasket.” Behind Ginny, Luna nodded earnestly. “It will be painful, but in the end, Ron will be okay, because he is going to recover physically sooner, although it might take him a bit longer, mentally. Hermione’s still touch and go.” The others nodded, agreeing with her explanation.

Neville had brought a small potted plant with red-edged arrowlike leaves and curling arms, probably intending to prune it quietly in the corner; it looked a tad overgrown. He fiddled with it absently. “I can’t imagine what you feel, losing your godfather,” he whispered to Harry. “He’s extended family to me, too, if you go back far enough. I know it must be hard. I mean, if nobody says anything, it’s weird, and I—” Neville’s ears reddened. “But we don’t have to speak of it again, if you don’t want to...” He clutched the pot more tightly, as if it could protect him.

“It’s all right, Neville,” Harry told him sincerely.

“Professor McGonagall said you got hurt,” Luna said vaguely, her eyes unfocused. “But it didn’t seem like you had been hit when you and Dumbledore left the Ministry...”

Ginny gave Luna a sharp look. “Then what happened?” she asked, turning to Harry.

“I did something stupid,” Harry said quietly.

“Well, what _did_ you do? Jump off a broomstick?” Ginny said, eyes flashing. “None of the teachers would tell us anything—"

“I fell.” Harry lowered his eyes to his lap. “I jumped off a tower.”

Ginny stared at him. Then she began to giggle, and finally to howl. “God, Harry, how _could_ you? I didn’t think you were that _stupid._ No way. You are _too much._ ” Ginny stamped her foot, shoved her face into her elbow, and bent over to muffle the sound of her laughter. The others looked to the door nervously, hoping she wouldn't get them thrown out for being loud.

“Yeah, but falling to death just doesn’t tend to work very well for wizards,” Neville mumbled. “Case in point…” He clutched the plant pot for support.

Harry said nothing.

When Ginny sobered, she scowled. “Riddle got into your head again, didn’t he.”

“Yeah,” Harry said in a flat voice, dropping his eyes to the coverlet. The image of Dumbledore’s impassive face with folded hands and his blue X-ray gaze came and filled his vision, unasked for. He banished it. “He did. But I’m alive now, and I… Look, at that moment, I didn’t really want to be.”

Ginny covered her mouth with both hands, looking as if she was about to cry. “ _God_ , Harry.” She stalked away to the window, not looking at any of them, and quietly wept.

Harry looked to Neville in silent question.

“She’ll cool down,” Neville said, looking after her. “The important thing is you survived, right? She’s upset because…you know. She cares about you and you never talk about yourself with anyone.” Neville looked uncomfortable. “You know she used to have a crush on you, right?”

“I know, Neville.”

Neville looked like he wanted to say something else, but he didn't. He nodded and sat himself down in a corner with his plant.

“I like your new glasses. They do bring out the green in your eyes! Are you going to keep them? Let’s play a game, Harry,” Luna said brightly. “That always takes my mind off of things. Exploding Snaps, Gobstones, Wizard Chess… What shall we play?”

Harry leaned back against the pillows. “How about I just watch you?”

Luna looked at him shyly. “If you’re sure…”

“I don’t mind, Luna. Really, I don’t.” He glanced around quickly; nobody was watching. "Luna, can I ask you something?"

She smiled.

Harry swept the fringes of his hair out of the way of his scar. "Does it look...different, now?"

Luna blinked and leaned forward to study it. "Hmm. I thought it seemed like a fresh scratch before. It sort of seems to be sealing, doesn't it?"

"It's not white, is it?"

Luna shook her head. "No, not yet."

Harry sat back, not sure how he felt about that. "Thanks, Luna. Don't tell anyone?"

"No, of course not, but I doubt I'd be believed even so," Luna said gravely. She thought for a while, then perked up. "How about a story, then?"

"I'd like that, Luna."

Harry's not quite sure how she led into it, but Luna proceeded to tell an imaginative and surprisingly salacious tale of Harry’s coming sixth year using her Exploding Snap cards to tell the most ridiculous fortunes with silly voices. Her imagination was a lot more enjoyable than his or Ron’s dismal predictions for Trelawney’s Divination class. Harry laughed himself sick. Once she calmed down, Ginny wandered over to listen. She smirked whenever Neville, continuing to prune quietly in the background, let out a mild snort. Harry marveled that he had never heard Neville soft, feathery chuckle before.

“It’s good to see you smile, Harry,” Luna said softly as she packed up and said goodbye. “I’m sorry about your godfather.”

“Me, too,” said Harry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's just let it be known that this is NOT a model of a safe situation, but of concerned adults acting in accordance with their conscience, in spite or despite the law. I view Wizarding Britain as having somewhat patchy laws. They probably rely more on social agreement about certain traditions than law, and dangerous things have to be pretty egregious, lethal, or widely abused before they will explicitly outlaw it; I'm doubtful that they are overly concerned with the safety of minors. But most real life schools would doubtless have a lot of red tape that would make what Snape and McGonagall will be doing going forward difficult. Not that, between Voldemort and Dumbledore and the rest of the Order, it's going to be a cakewalk.


End file.
